Sizing Up Her Competition
by KricketWilliams
Summary: Detective Joss Carter agrees to a dinner meeting with the adversarial Mr. Reese. I don't own a thing.


AN: This is my first Person of Interest story! Dedicated to Lady Belletrist, because she requested this...I hope you enjoy!...

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**Sizing Up Her Competition** by Kricket Williams

She didn't like their methods. They were renegades, and Detective Joss Carter believed in the system. She'd dedicated her life to the police force, to upholding the law and the moral principles that she believed in and the oath she'd taken as an officer. They were all one in the same…even if her colleagues were not always upstanding individuals. She didn't like how John Reese did business.

However, as much as she disliked their methods, she had to give them credit. They had a strong sense of justice, in doing what was right and protecting the underdog, regardless of the cost to them. They'd even protected _her_, knowing she was searching for him and was a potential danger.

Yet, justice, the way they delivered it, came with a price too great for her to ignore. They'd appointed themselves judge and jury, and they'd carried out their sentences without looking back. It was part of her grave dislike; she believed everyone deserved a fair trial, a chance to tell their story, and representation, regardless of how low their crime. She didn't like that John Reese was a vigilante and sometimes—she was sure of it—executioner.

But she couldn't say she didn't like _him_.

There was something so impervious about him, something that made him seem alone, an island unto himself, even though he had his "friend," Finch. He was untouchable, dangerous, and he seemed to want to remain that way…for his sake and the sake of others.

Still, there was something haunted about the rogue CIA agent that she couldn't place. Something in his angel-blue eyes that bespoke of serious pain, loss...maybe even betrayal. There was something that made her want to peel back the layers of him and reach into his soul.

And comfort him.

Joss wasn't the kind of woman that was soft and mothered the world. She had enough on her plate, being a single mom of a teenager, but she couldn't turn away from John Reese.

Maybe that was why she'd accepted this meeting. Maybe that was why she was entering the restaurant and meeting him at a table in the corner. Maybe that was why her heart was racing and her pulse was beating so fast and hard, she could swear he'd hear it if he'd only listen.

"Detective," he said, his melodic, soft voice—so sharply contrasting with his character—greeting her as she arrived. Apparently he was a gentleman, too; he stood, and with fluid grace, moved her chair out for her.

Independent woman that she was, she pushed her own chair in.

Those blue eyes twinkled with humor as he took his chair again before he gestured to the bottle on the table. "I took the liberty of ordering us a fine Bordeaux."

She glanced the bottle and recognized the vintner and the year. "A Saint Michelle." She arched a brow. "You spared no expense."

He gave a slight smirk. "It isn't my money, so…"

That was disconcerting. "Did you steal it?"

His answering glare was swift, like she'd offended the hell out of him. "How I come about my funds is of no concern to you, Detective."

"Legality is always my concern, Mr. Reese," she replied as coldly. "It is my duty to uphold the law."

There was a glint in his eyes as well as a slight tick in his cheek. He poured a glass and then placed it in front of her. As he poured his own, he said, "You seem to be one of the few in your profession who stand true to that."

She let the glass of deliciously-scented wine sit untouched. "I cannot be held accountable for everyone in the NYPD…but I can stand firm for myself."

For a moment, he stared at her, as if he were judging the measure of her character for the thousandth time. Within the next breath, he picked up his glass and said quickly, "I have a rich benefactor…whom you are acquainted with."

Understanding dawned. "Mr. Finch."

So that was why he worked so closely with the other man. Slowly but surely, she was putting the picture of their operation together. She had so many questions—how they knew there were people in danger, how they chose their marks, how they were aware of _anything_—and so many questions about _him_.

He took a sip of his wine and continued to watch her, those cerulean eyes catching her every move. She felt under the microscope, and yet, her stomach swarmed with butterflies of awareness.

"I appreciate that you came tonight, Detective Carter," he said.

"Mr. Reese," she began carefully.

He opened his menu. "There's a very nice filet here."

"The information you have is classified. How do you—"

"Steak," he interrupted, trying to change the subject. "You do enjoy steak?"

"I do." She sighed, knowing they were at square one. "I also know you are aware of that. It's easy to hire and get a profile on basics, John."

"That's true," he said, swirling the wine in his glass. "What about what's not on the profile?"

So they had profiled her! That made her prickle defensively. "Like what?"

"Like your coral fingertips."

She took her hands that were neatly folded on the table and moved them to her lap. "What about my fingernails?"

"Why did you choose such a brilliant color, when the rest of your outfit cries government khaki and gray?" He gave her a slow, lazy smile that showed his perfect white teeth. "Is there a touch of renegade in you, Detective Carter?"

He was watching her again, and it made the heat in her body rise unwittingly. She said quickly, putting him in his designation in her life, "I do not mix my personal life with business, Mr. Reese."

Giving the slightest shrug of his shoulder, he answered, "I don't, either."

For a moment, a forbidden moment, she felt a stab of disappointment.

Shaking that off, she took a sip of her wine. "So you'll understand if I don't answer your question?"

"Oh, I understand," he drawled, and then he flashed a brilliant smile. "But that doesn't mean I have to like it."

Their eyes met and held, a challenge between them that she couldn't—she _wouldn't_—answer.

For now.

Reluctantly, Joss broke the contact and looked back at her menu. She cleared her throat and said, "That filet does sound good…"


End file.
